Every domino so far had been a move. Betrayal. Confession. Murder. Deal. This one wasn't any of that shit. This one was going to bend every last Beta of Nyros over and make them thank it.
Hold that thought.
Nicholas Shadowfell was running a lockdown the way a wrecking ball runs a birthday party.
Playtime is over motherfuckers.
Louder, for the ones trying to climb out a window.
Every passageway, stairwell, and chimney big enough to hide a body got plugged in Greyhall Crossing.
EXITS? Sealed. Fire hazards.
GATES? Barred like a bankrupt casino.
WINDOWS? Locked. Freedom has been cancelled.
Nobody in. Nobody out. End of discussion.
Forty-seven Alphas who'd just set the continental high-water mark for getting shit done were now experiencing the purest form of institutional blue balls the continent had ever engineered.
